Categories
Micro Fiction

The Lolly Shop on Hope Street

The little boy followed the balloon through the Summer streets.

He knew nothing of the balloon except that it was red and tied with a glistening blue string: and that he must follow it, wherever the wind might float it.

And although the boy didn’t understand how he knew, still he knew the balloon was leading him home.

And so he followed.

And so the balloon lead him to the Lolly Shop on Hope Street.

Photo by David J. Boozer on Pexels.com
Categories
Sun and Moon

Best Friends

‘Sun?’

‘Yes, Moon?’ Sun dribbled out the corner of his frown, watching drearily as a group of star children skipped along a cloud.

‘When was the last time you laughed?’

‘Umm…Oh, I can’t remember, Moon. Too long ago.’

‘Sun?’

‘Oh, what is it, Moon?’

‘Your face is covered in red crayon. It’s a picture of a hotdog running after a cat running after a dog.’

‘Well, that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. And completely untrue. I’m perfectly shiny, thank you very much.’

‘Well, yes, you are. But you still have red crayon all over your face. I should know. I put it there,’ Moon grinned and gave a most spectacular sparkle.

‘What do you mean, you put it there?’

‘Well, Sun, you remember last week, don’t you? When you said: ‘Moon, when was the last time you laughed? And I told you I couldn’t remember…?’

‘Moon! There’s a giant shadow on the Earth, now. Look! It’s a hot dog running after a cat running after a dog!’

The best friends drew closer in the sky and gazed upon the newly decorated Earth.

And then the laughter came.

smiling women
Photo by Asya Cusima on Pexels.com

 

Categories
Micro Fiction

Lavender

They used to meet in the meadow and gather lavender.

How sweet it was to raise their faces and breathe.

How sweet it was, just to be.

Side by side.

Alive.

aroma aromatherapy aromatic basket
Photo by Jill Wellington on Pexels.com

 

Categories
The Darling Blog Of May

Darling Day 14. Liberation

Crisp walls and lavender fresh linen. It was her mother who insisted on such drastic perfection and, until now, it had never occurred to Geraldine that life had the option to be anything other than perfect. She would be forty in a month, and although her Mother would not approve, Geraldine craved something more. Something wild. Something actually really quite bad.

She flung a leg out of the bath and breathed into her belly: hold one, two three…a cool, soothing wind on the out-breath. What if she did allow herself a regression to the grotty child that once she was? An ignorant small human, who far too often muddied the guest couch—and her mother’s delightfully manicured day. A child who, one day, would find the courage to tell her mother that the couch had been, in fact, the hills coming alive with the romping, stomping wonderful sound of music.

Darling,‘ her mother would say, through a smiling mouth and chainsaw eyes. ‘You must always be good.‘ Eventually, the words and the eyes had the desired effect, and Geraldine did, indeed, grow into the neatly folded girl her Mother had groomed her to be. Perfection in a girl, life under strict lock and key. Geraldine was the fly in the web of her mother’s high standards. Alive but not living. Rotting away under the critical eye of the long-legged other in her life.

Her bathrobe waited to give her a warm hug after the bath was over. What if she didn’t use it? What if she stood, dried, and walked about the house. Naked. She lived alone, but even so, free range nudity was a luxury afforded only to men, and those unfortunate women requiring external stimulation for the treatment of low self-esteem. Nudity— even solo nudity—was not for good girls.

Until, of course, it was.

Geraldine rose from the tub and reached for the gracefully folded towel that lay atop the sparkling white sink. Perfection died tonight. Her mother’s hold on her life died, all limbs bared, tonight.

The soft leather couch was like warm paint to her naked skin. Although the liberation of nudity felt wonderful, it was…still not enough. Geraldine needed more. And so it was, that more arose.

As if by some miraculous order of the universe, some equally trapped eternal wind searching for life, the doorbell rang.

Geraldine smiled.

She rose from the couch, without a beat, without a care.

Darling, indeed, she thought.

Darling, indeed.

 

 

Categories
Life

Sad Women (Micro Fiction)

The arm chair she sat in had a wet cat funk to it, but Granny still sat there, day after day, moaning about how Pop never did the dishes, not a day in his whole life.

‘Old men don’t care that it’s a woman’s world, these days, love. Old men still think it’s their right to own their wife and treat her as they like,’ Granny said.

I felt for Granny, I really did. It was the daggers in her eyes that did it; the flash of the TV lit up inside of them like a raging inferno breaking through that dainty old lady face of hers.

I wasn’t much of a feminist, but Granny had me in the guts on those cat chair days.

And that’s how I knew I’d never be getting me one of those husband things.

There just wasn’t room in the world for any more sad women, like Granny.

Categories
Life

The Colours of Love

Sun greeted Moon in the afternoon sky with a flirtatious splay of pink-golden mist.

‘Darling Moon. Have I mentioned, this summer eve, just how dearly I love you?’

Moon blushed. ‘No, Sun. You haven’t. But even if you had, I wouldn’t have listened.’

‘But why not, moon? You listen to all my words. Why would you not listen to words as lovely as these.’

Moon sighed, and drooped a little in the sky. ‘These words are lovely on the front side, Sun. But the back of them are black, and black means I’ll have something to lose if I accept them with all of my heart.’

Sun scratched his head, unsure for a moment what to say. He breathed in a small puff of cloud to gather his senses, and then he smiled gently into moon’s eyes. This was the gaze that always calmed her.

‘Moon. There are no guarantees in life. It is messy. Sometimes, life can even be horrible. But in this moment I am so deeply in love with you that any moment beyond this one simply does not exist. Black does not exist within this moment, does it, Moon?’

Moon and her shine rose to their original place in the sky, feeling light and breezy. Sun was right. There was no black in this moment. In fact, the colour Sun had shone into her was the most beautiful shade of love she’d ever known. Perhaps she might accept it, after all. Perhaps she might accept it for all the moments after, too. If she continued to choose so.

Categories
Life

Storytime

‘Look, Sun! The humans are telling stories again,’ said Moon as she picked through the glimmering blue ripples at her feet, sorting each loose shard into piles of keep or discard.

‘Oh goody! You know how I love storytime,’ said Sun, as he slid off the swing and left it to dangle between the car cloud and the witch cloud.

‘Oh, Sun,’ Moon’s heart fell as her eyes drifted back to the group of humans gathered below. ‘Today, the humans are talking about our beautiful friend, Raven. But instead of seeing his beauty like we do, they are frightened of him. They’ve put him in a little box called ‘Black magic and death.’  

‘Well, why would they do a ridiculous thing like that, Moon? Raven is no different than Cat, or Dog, or Fish. The humans have put them in the safe, family, home box.’

Moon smiled gently into Sun’s eyes.

‘Sun, humans tell stories for all sorts of reasons. And often the stories they tell hide the truth of what actually exists in front of them. When we look at Raven, all we see is a beautiful bird, because we’ve never put Raven in the box of black magic and death. The humans can’t help but see him differently, because that’s the box they were told he belongs in. ‘

Sun gazed at the woman that gently glimmered before him. How he loved her for the new eyes she had given him, and even though he didn’t know how he knew, every storytime brought them closer to seeing the truth of their own shared story box.

brown book page
Photo by Wendy van Zyl on Pexels.com

Categories
Life

Moon and The Magic

Moon sat upon the edge of a cloud, dangling her feet in a manner of careless delight.

‘Sun?’ she said, as she casually tossed a star into the yellow of his shine.

‘Yes, Moon?’ Sun replied, careful to gaze at her just the way he knew she would like.

‘Do you believe in magic?’ Moon said, as she looked upon the Earth and imagined what wonder their joint rays might be producing below.

‘I believe in you, Moon.’

And with that, Sun smiled, knowing he’d given his precious Moon two answers in one.

couple sitting on bench
Photo by Immortal shots on Pexels.com

Categories
A Blog a Day in May

A Friend Of Convenience

Her art is a friend of convenience.

It absorbs her.

It turns her delicate into raw and beautiful scenes of naked flesh on linen.

It turns her hard into lashings of angry black with no recognisable form.

The artist removes the brush from her mouth and strokes, one final touch of pink and she’ll be satisfied.

But she won’t. She’ll never be satisfied.

Because she is an artist.

And an artist, she knows, is always a work in progress.

An artist—a passionate, heart dwelling artist—will always be full of too much life, and never full of enough.

This is what living has taught her.

This is her reason for art.

woman sitting on brown stool
Photo by Burst on Pexels.com

Categories
Writing

The Happy Driver

Arki was a taxi driver, but in his heart he was a writer. He knew he was a writer because the words never stopped racing in his mind until they were out. Neither did the joyous feeling they stirred in him.

Everyday Arki would think up his words and send them into the world. He didn’t need a computer. He didn’t need paper. All he needed was to flash his words onto the windscreen of his cab, onto the night shining road, onto the cars that sped along beside him. He didn’t care where his words landed. All he cared about was that they landed.

He didn’t need his words to change anyone else’s life, either, because they changed his, and that was enough. In changing his life, they fixed a permanent light in his eyes that everyone who crossed his path could see and feel.

Joe, the frequent flyer who dressed for business and laughed like a monkey, slapped him on the back and called him, The happy driver. Jennifer, the lonely lawyer with sad eyes and a happy smile, insisted on a hug once they’d reached the office of a morning—just to say thank you. He’d wrapped his arms around her this morning and wondered if her eyes were closed and wishing to ‘catch’ some of his happy.

Arki had grown up with the burning need to change the world in some grand way. But as he drove along the road to home, thinking of his wife curled up on the couch and his baby boy, nose whistling in his cot, he smiled. He had changed the world in greater ways than he’d ever imagined.

And that, he thought, was good.

lighted taxi signage
Photo by Skitterphoto on Pexels.com